On the Subject of Burning Bridges

I hate generalizations.

The fact is, you can't count on something to be true all the time. A blanket statement which throws a million different situations into one category or lesson is bound to be proved wrong at some point. People too often forget--there is an exception to every parable.

"Don't burn your bridges," one might say. But how many instances can we think of in which that idea would be proved wrong?

*Warning: Metaphorapalooza up ahead.*

Try to envision these examples.

Exhibit A: You're running from a tribe of cannibals. You come to a rickety rope bridge spanning a terrifying gorge, and make it across. The cannibals, hot on your heels, also begin to cross the bridge. Now, at this point, do you stop to consider whether or not you should maintain the connection with the cannibals, to preserve that possibility of a positive relationship which still might arise? After all, maybe they just wanted to accept you as one of their own and not remove your ears, fry, and eat them in front of you while in the meantime the remainder of your body is being boiled into a delectable stew infused with thyme and parsley.

The answer is no. You do not stop to consider maintaining this bridge as a method of retreat. You fucking burn it, or at least epically slash the ropes with your machete before settling your fedora on your head and continuing off into the wilderness.

Exhibit B: You're wandering in the Amazonian jungle when you come across yet another rickety old rope bridge spanning a drop the would certainly give you several agonizing minutes to think on your death before you'd finally SPLAT from the fall. Crossing it, a board gives way beneath you. Then the rope tying the bridge to land inexplicably begins to fray. Then monkeys arrive out of nowhere to gnaw on the other ropes, just to be helpful. When you finally reach the other side (after, of course, swinging nobly through the air as you clung on for dear life while the bridge slams vertically against the opposite side of the gorge), you've about had it with this mothafuckin' bridge over this mothafuckin' canyon.

Burn it. Let it serve as a warning to others: be goddamn careful of these random crazy cliched bridges. Plus, if it's already broken, you might as well dispose of the pieces (in a proper, flaming fashion) to make sure nobody convinces themselves it's a good idea to attempt to repair such an entirely unsafe bridge. Just go around the gorge next time.

I Write Again! (Though Perhaps Not Yet in a Functional Context)

Wednesday I realized I'd written three not entirely terrible poems within 24 hours. In comparison with my poetry productivity (OH GOD I EVEN MAKE USE OF LITERARY ELEMENTS IN REAL LIFE HOW COOL AM I) for the rest of this past school year, I'm beginning to suspect this may be evidence that I'm metamorphosing into Ezra Pound, or at least someone who actually shows evidence of writing and doesn't just claim they're "living their life" to build up passions and ideas for future pieces.

I feel less guilty now that I've written something that I don't want to rip out of my notebook merely so I can eat it and feel the satisfaction that it is dying slowly in the torturous juices of my stomach only to end its short crappy life in irony.

Which isn't to say I'm not still retaining a horrible amount of guilt in life. Just, at least now it's mostly centered on how I haven't cleaned my fish's tank since I filled it or even given it a real name when I've owned it for three weeks. I feel guilty cause I know I'd be mad about living in my own poop, too, you sad identity-less fishy.